


hey, young blood

by mondaycore



Series: the last of the real ones [8]
Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Alternate universe - Mafia, Feelings Realization, Knifeplay, M/M, Possessiveness, Shaving, Trust, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-29
Updated: 2020-01-29
Packaged: 2021-02-26 09:43:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22450291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mondaycore/pseuds/mondaycore
Summary: “You wouldn’t and you won’t, until one day, you will and you must. It is how it goes,pequeño,in this world,” Carlos says. “Quien a hierro mata, a hierro muere."
Relationships: Lando Norris/Carlos Sainz Jr, Lando Norris/Daniel Ricciardo
Series: the last of the real ones [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1499777
Comments: 19
Kudos: 108





	hey, young blood

**Author's Note:**

  * For [redpaint](https://archiveofourown.org/users/redpaint/gifts).

> what’s UP friends and foes, it’s your least favorite day of the week, semi-alive, more or less well, and back by unpopular demand to ruin the most wholesome ship in this godforsaken place.
> 
> this one’s light, but please mind the tags regardless. still FOB, of course. the lando/daniel is purely in reference to [a previous story in this AU,](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20934500) but you don't have to read it to understand this one. tbh, nobody needs to read _any_ of this drivel, so if you're here, thanks a billion, truly.
> 
> as ever, this is fiction of my own creation. please do not share this publicly and/or outside of ao3.
> 
> nat, this one goes out to you for bein’ a pal :)
> 
> now with a [translation in russian](https://ficbook.net/readfic/9105865) by the always-wonderful [Crow_Dust](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crow_Dust/profile).

Lando lets himself into Carlos’ apartment with the spare key he’s been given, wanders through the by-now familiar space until he finds the man leaning against the sink in the bathroom, gazing into the mirror — and then stops and _ stares_, struck entirely dumb.

Late afternoon sunlight slants in through the window set high on the wall, golden-warm and gentle, shafting in the moted air. It transforms entirely, for a fleeting second, the figure standing within the small space. Swept dark hair, steady dark eyes, the precise lines of Carlos’ jaw and chest, the unfolded straight razor he’s holding, all gilded and shadowed and edged in a hard line of brilliant white light, too blinding to look at for too long.

It’s … God, it’s _ something. _ Lando wishes, not for the first time, that he were better with his words, because maybe then he could describe it. It feels kind of imperative that he does, if only so he can hold onto this scene forever, but there’s no good word he can think of for being hollowed out from the center of his very being, leaving him feeling weirdly bruised and winded.

And then the moment passes, as all things do. Carlos notices him standing there and turns to him, dipping his razor into the washbasin and cleaning it off with a flick through the water. 

“Ah, sorry. Almost done,” he says. Lando nods, still a bit dazed. He leans himself against the doorframe and watches as Carlos turns back to the mirror and finishes his shave, drawing his hand down in quick, sure motions with the blade delicately balanced between his fingers. 

It’s badass as hell. Lando’s sure if _ he _ were to try it, he would look like a moron and definitely also hurt himself. But Carlos has that sort of confidence about him that makes everything he does seem so effortless. Though he’s still young, he doesn’t act or seem it at all. It probably comes from being actual syndicate royalty, the _ vieux riche _ of the underworld — he’s the son of one of the most infamous smugglers in Iberia, if not all continental Europe. _ El Matador _ has controlled the Paris-Dakar route for years and most recently ran contraband into Saudi Arabia right under the noses of the Al Saud like nothing at all. Carlos’ dad is an old-school legend. Carlos possibly was born knowing how to cut cigars and wear expensive suits to perfection, knowing how to lie with grace and ease. How to move through this world as beasts of prey do. 

Lando, he’s nobody at all. He’s just a little twerp who fell into this mafia shit for lack of anything better to do, and because he’s not good for much else. He’s the kind of mewling animal that creatures like Carlos hunt and kill for sport. He lives every day in sheer terror someone’s going to catch on that he’s faking it all, and when that day comes, he can only hope that the wide-eyed adorable act will spare him from getting his throat cut for his trouble. Chances are, it probably won’t, and that’ll be that.

But _ Carlos_. Carlos, he’s so _ cool. _

He must say this out loud, because Carlos snorts. 

“Yes, must be _ very _ cool to someone who cannot even grow a beard,” he says, wiping the razor off and setting it down on the lip of the sink. “Your father never showed you how to do this?”

“No,” Lando says, crossing his arms defensively. His dad’s just some nine-to-five businessman, stock options and retirement savings and water cooler small talk, boring as boring gets. Lando can’t imagine him ever doing anything like _ this_.

“Shame. Never taught to be a man,” Carlos says, shaking his head. He smiles at Lando, soft and wry and mocking, though not at all unkind. It makes Lando feel some kind of way he also can't exactly categorize — all he knows is it makes him want nothing more than for the ground to open up and swallow him whole, thank you very much, before Carlos can tease him any further.

But all Carlos does is pull him over so they're both crowded into the small space. They stand shoulder-to-shoulder for a second, looking at each other through the mirror before Lando glaces away, uncomfortable.

They’re meant to be going to the Barcelona Conclave, the annual weeklong ceasefire where the heads of houses all sit around hammering out terms and rules of engagement for the year ahead — it’s mostly a symbolic thing, since after they disperse, they all go right back to pretty much ignoring said agreements and going at each other’s throats once more. But the Conclave also serves as an initiation for those newly ascended into the upper echelons of mob society. This year, it’s Esteban Ocon, whose machinations against Hulkenberg were apparently successful, and his old acquaintance Nicholas Latifi, who’d finally earned his stripes as one of Claire Williams’ top bagmen.

Lando’s no longer a rookie, so there's no excuse for not acting — or looking — the part. He has to represent his house well. He’d spent a long time getting himself ready and presentable, but although he’s in his nicest suit and Carlos is standing there in his undershirt, he still feels underdressed and awkward in comparison. His tie is crooked and his lapels won’t lie flat, and one of his cufflinks keeps slipping out.

“It’s okay. You look very grown-up. _ Un mayorcito_,” Carlos says, trying and failing at keeping a straight face.

“Ugh,” Lando groans, tugging at his collar, which remains hopelessly askew despite his best efforts. Carlos regards him pensively for a long second, then reaches over and pulls Lando’s hand away, rubbing his thumb once, gently, over his wrist.

“I can show you how to do this, since you think it’s so _ cool. _Teach you how to be a _real_ grown-up," Carlos says, indicating the razor set on the sink with a small smirk. “If you like.” 

Lando curls and uncurls his fingers, feeling the warmth of Carlos’ sudden touch still lingering on his skin.

“Yeah, I’d like that,” he says, before he’s really even thought it through. He eyes the knife warily. It lies half-folded on the white porcelain like some large, alien insect, and just as liable to sting if handled incorrectly. But the foolish overeager need to prove himself, to please, rises in him. It's a compulsion that only seems to emerge when Carlos is around, and one he’s entirely helpless to resist.

Lando yelps in surprise when he feels a touch of heat at the hollow of his throat, Carlos digging two fingers into the knot of his tie, pulling it loose with a sharp tug and draping it around his own neck. The dark silk ripples and shines against Carlos’ tawny skin.

“What are you doing?”

“I will show you, but I don’t want to ruin your nice clothes,” Carlos says, with a tone of infinite and deeply amused patience.

“Oh. Right,” Lando says dumbly, _ duh_, and then forces himself to focus on nothing at all as Carlos turns him around and backs him up against the sink. Carlos eases his hands under the lapels of Lando’s suit jacket, skimming it off and hanging it up on a nearby rack, and works Lando’s cufflinks out and slips them into his pocket. Lando’s shirt follows, quickly unbuttoned and sloughed from his shoulders with a brief and searing press of deft clever fingers, leaving him bare-chested and shivering in a way that has nothing to do with being cold.

Carlos reaches for a strip of leather hanging on a hook by the mirror and pulls it toward him. He picks up the razor and draws the knife down and across it, turning it over, down again and over again. The polished metal of the blade flashes in the light.

“What’s that?”

“It’s, how do you call it — a strop. To sharpen it. A dull knife is more dangerous than a sharp one,” Carlos says. “_Eso es_. Hold this.”

He hands the razor over, handle-first, and Lando accepts it gingerly. It’s sturdy, well-made, and heavier than expected, but so perfectly balanced that it settles into his hand like it belonged there all along. It seems to vibrate against his skin like something living, thrilling with the promise of blood, calling for it. It reminds him of the first time he’d ever held a gun — a heady, potent weight resting in the palm of his hand. He curls his fingers around the handle with more confidence and traces lightly over the cutting edge of the blade, testing its sharpness, entranced. Just holding it makes him feel kind of powerful, kind of _ vicious. _ He can understand the appeal.

“Stop that, you’ll cut yourself,” Carlos says. Lando jolts from his reverie and snatches his hand away as if scalded, narrowly avoiding actually slicing his fingers open. “Look at me.”

Lando glances up and squeaks unbecomingly as Carlos attacks him with a brush, swiping lather on his face and neck.

“Come on,” Carlos says, grinning, as Lando squirms. “Stop _ fidgeting._”

He bears the weight of his body down to keep Lando pinned against the sink. The abrupt contact is electrifying, a thousand volts jolting live-wire straight through his chest, tingling like static, and Lando goes completely still, petrified. Carlos pulls away slightly, expression filled with concern as he takes the razor back.

“Hey, _ estás bien?_” Carlos asks, running a light, steadying hand down Lando’s side like he's gentling a skittish animal — and Lando, as if inured to obey Carlos’ touch on instinct, instantly yields and relaxes. “You trust me to do this?”

“I’m fine. I mean, of course I do,” he says, and laughs in a weak attempt at humor to lighten the sudden tension. “I know you're not going to cut my throat.”

It doesn't work. Carlos frowns.

“Lando, I would never hurt you. _ Never, _ ” he says, so solemn and fierce that Lando has a hard time holding his gaze. It clenches his heart in a way that feels almost shameful, somehow. Feels like he’s being flayed open and laid bare, all his most secret thoughts and his many, many flaws exposed to the light. But Carlos is looking at him like he's something precious, in spite of how _ lacking _ Lando feels himself to be. And Lando doesn't know _ why_, or _ what _ he’s done to deserve being regarded in this way, and he can’t stand it, but he loves it, but he hates it, but he _ wants _ it, but it scares him, but _ he needs it. _

“It’s okay, Carlos. I want — I want you to show me,” Lando says, and flushes as soon as he says it, because he _ knows _ how it sounds. 

But if Carlos catches the entendre, he mercifully stays silent. He just crowds in close, chest-to-chest, braces his arms on Lando’s shoulders, and cups his free hand around the back of Lando’s head. He places the razor flat to his own wrist for a second to warm the metal, then holds it up.

Though if Carlos really wanted to cut his throat, Lando thinks, a little hysterically, he would gladly let him. He’d let Carlos do whatever he wanted to him, absolutely anything at all.

Then all rational thought is driven from his mind when he feels the first touch of the blade against his skin.

Carlos draws the razor down carefully, so carefully, from his cheekbone to the line of his jaw, carving a clean sharp line through the lather. The bite of the blade is just this side of cutting, and a heavy, glowing coil of heat shivers through Lando, pooling in the pit of his belly. 

Lando startles as he and Carlos breathe out together — he hadn't realized Carlos was holding his breath.

“_Así_. Not so bad, yes?” Carlos says.

“Not so bad,” Lando echoes, in a near-whisper. Carlos dips the razor in the water of the washbasin to clean it off.

When he leans in again, Lando closes his eyes and breathes through his mouth, very slowly, very deliberately, losing himself to the steady rhythm, the seductive kiss of steel across his skin, the soft whisper of steel through water, the anticipation, the cold touch of metal. And again, and again, and again, hypnotizing, mesmerizing. He’s nearly shaking with it, hyperaware of every point of contact where Carlos is pressed up on him. Carlos _burns_ with heat, as if at his core he’s not a man, but a blazing star — and though Lando already feels feverish and half-delirious, he drinks the warmth in greedily like he’s freezing to death.

Carlos threads his fingers through Lando’s hair and pulls lightly, tipping Lando’s chin up, exposing the line of his throat. The ease with which he submits to it is probably a bad reflection on his sense of self-preservation, but it's okay because it's Carlos, it’s for Carlos, he'd only ever do this for him.

The blade presses against his neck.

His heart rate kicks up, and he’s _ sure _Carlos can feel his heart hammering in his chest, standing so close as they are.

“Be good and hold still,” Carlos says.

The first pass is so excruciatingly slow it feels like a caress, a long, loving stroke of a finely-honed blade down his throat. Distantly, through the white noise that buzzes in his mind, Lando realizes he’s hard. He fights the unconscious impulse to shift just a few inches to the side and press Carlos’ thigh between his legs for some relief. He can’t. He has to hold still. He has to _ be good. _

He chances to open his eyes then, and his breath comes short when he sees Carlos with his hair falling in his face and his lips parted slightly, his brow furrowed in concentration, his eyes intense and dark as night. He’s so focused on his task he doesn't even notice Lando looking at him. The muscles of his shoulders shift under his skin as he works.

The world around them seems frozen in place, suspended in the cathedral illumination of late afternoon, and Lando gets that gouged-out feeling again, like Carlos is actually, physically carving him open with every pass of the blade, and the thick syrupy haze that washes over them is flooding in, filling him up. Like if Carlos' hand were to slip and split his skin open, it wouldn't be wet red warmth that poured out, but something honey-golden and viscous.

Finally, Carlos finishes. He wipes a spare bit of shaving cream from Lando’s jaw with his thumb and stands back to admire his handiwork.

“There you are. _ Que bello_,” he murmurs, shattering the silence that has fallen over them. 

Lando misses it immediately, the heat of Carlos’ skin on his, the edge of steel against his neck. His eye is drawn to the razor as Carlos pulls it away, tracking it as if spellbound. Carlos notices him staring and twirls it fancily, just to show off, making light glint and dance off the blade.

“You like this, yes?”

“Yeah, it’s — ” How to explain it, that it actually reminds him of Carlos: elegant and sharp and subtle and clever. That he’s so enamored of these things that are beautiful, but dangerous. All these words he doesn't have, all these things he doesn't want to admit. “ — awesome,” he finishes, lamely.

“Awesome,” Carlos repeats, his lips curling with the hint of a smile.

“Have you ever killed anyone with it?” Lando blurts out, which is probably the _ least _regrettable thing he could have said, considering.

“Ah," Carlos says. His expression turns a little sly, a little dark, which answers the question. "That is something I will teach you some other time."

“I’ve done it once before already,” Lando says, because he wants Carlos to be _impressed, _and he can't seem to stop running his mouth to try to prove himself. “I’ve shot someone. Daniel showed me how.”

Which is a mistake to bring up. He reddens when he thinks of what _ else _ he’d done with Daniel that night, the far more inadvisable thing — granted, he’d almost _ died_, which as it turns out, fucks with your head more than just a little, and Daniel had been so willing and earnest about it _ — _

“_Daniel_ showed you, yes. He also almost got you killed," Carlos says, narrowing his eyes. "I’m never letting him near you again."

Lando knows Carlos and Daniel are friends, or at least they have the sort of foxhole comradeship that all those who apprentice under Marko seem to share, or they _did_ until Daniel wrested Carlos' place from him at Renault — but the banked anger in Carlos' voice is real. The way it sounds, it’s like Lando is a prized posession of Carlos' that he lent out, only for it to be returned in less-than-pristine condition. It's grossly possessive, and it makes Lando feel hot all over.

“I'll teach you, _pues, _I'll show you what I will do to the _malparido _bastard," Carlos growls, "the next time he even _looks _at you — ”

Carlos lays the blade of the razor against Lando’s eye, the barest pressure on the wafer-thin skin of his eyelid. Lando swallows hard, doing his best not to flinch away. This is a different version of Carlos standing before him now, one with a slaughtering desire in his eyes — and it enthralls Lando. Absolutely fascinates him. This beautiful thing, this killing thing.

“Or talks to you — ”

He then puts the tip of the knife against Lando’s lips, gently coaxing his mouth open, and slides the blade flat along his tongue. Lando's eyes go half-shut, and he chases it a little as Carlos carefully pulls it away.

“Or smiles at you, _ el sonriente, _ I’ll give him something to smile about.” 

Carlos drags the dull spine of the blade in a slow, curving arc across Lando’s neck, from ear to ear, pressing in a little. Lando tips his chin up and bares his throat, unbidden. His breath sounds loud and shaky in his own ears.

“And if he ever _ dares _touch you again — ”

Carlos lays the razor high on the inside of his thigh, above the artery that Lando knows would bleed him out in seconds if Carlos were to turn his wrist and dig the knife in. It burns like a branding iron, even through the heavy fabric of his pants. Carlos drags the knife up slowly, between Lando’s legs. Presses the blade, hard, against his dick. Lando honest-to-God _wails_ and jerks his hips forward, uncaring now that his breath comes in harsh gasps. He’s so embarrassingly, breathtakingly close, just a touch away — but Carlos draws back, denying him release.

“See, anyone can teach anyone to shoot someone. But to kill someone with a knife like this is very difficult, yes?” Carlos says, low and hushed. “Because you must get _ this _ close to do it. You have to really hate them. Or really, really love them.”

Lando can only nod, unable to find the voice to speak.

“The day you kill me, it’ll be just like this,” Carlos says, putting the blade to the side of his own neck. He sounds calm as ever, but his pupils are blown, and there’s the slightest hint of a flush across his cheeks. He pushes forward against Lando like he can't help himself, and Lando's eyes go wide when he feels Carlos hot and heavy and _hard _against his hip.

“No, I wouldn’t. Never,” he whimpers, panting a little, his voice wrecked.

“You wouldn’t and you won’t, until one day, you will and you must. It is how it goes, _ pequeño, _ in this world,” Carlos says. "_Quien a hierro mata, a hierro muere_."

"Live by the sword, die by the sword," Lando says, unsteadily.

"Yes, that," Carlos says, and then murmurs, like a secret, "and you will be my sword, Lando.”

He refolds the razor and draws away then, breaking the contact between them entirely as he fetches Lando’s clothes from the rack he’d hung them on. Lando stands there like a dumb animal and allows himself to be re-dressed: shirt, cufflinks, tie, jacket.

He catches his reflection in the mirror when Carlos is done. He looks no different, despite the shave — at most, perhaps a bit neater for having his tie retied and his suit now laying properly on him. Which is a surprise to him, because he _ feels _ entirely shattered, cleaved apart and put back together again, held in place only by the fabric draped over him and buttoned up tight.

A weight drops into the inner pocket of his suit jacket.

“I want you to keep this,” Carlos says, smoothing Lando’s jacket down. “Just in case, for Barcelona.”

The razor nestles in against Lando’s breast, right over his heart. Something falls into place then, and Lando figures it out. He finally knows what he’s feeling, has a word for it at last.

It’s just what Carlos had said. It’s _love, _is what it is. What other word could you possibly use, what else could you possibly feel, for someone who puts a knife to your neck and makes it feel like a lover’s touch, and who touches you and makes it feel dangerous as a blade. Someone who holds your life in their hands with such care and devotion, who takes you apart and puts you back together, making you beautiful, inside and out. Who would kill for you over a misplaced look or smile. Who would teach you the ways and give you the weapon with which to kill them and says, _I trust you to use these well. _

He’d just been blind to it because it looks so different in this world, but it’s also the same, fundamentally. _ He loves Carlos. _That’s all there is to it.

He glances over his shoulder, hoping he hasn't given himself away or made his revelation known — but Carlos, thankfully, has slipped away already into the next room to finish getting himself dressed.

There’s an unfathomable chasm between understanding and accepting, and then another one between accepting and being able to _ admit _to it. But there will be all the time in the world to work up the courage to cross those gaps, to let Carlos know what he deserves to know. This isn’t something Lando will so readily forget.

So he stands there alone in the bathroom still sweetly and desperately aching for it, and puts a hand to his chest, and feels the sliver of wood and metal in his pocket folded neatly beneath his palm. Golden sunshine pours over him, and when he looks in the mirror he sees that it’s _ his _ turn now to receive the divine beauty of the light — that he, now, is the one transformed.

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this mostly on my phone on various planes trains and automobiles and posted this while in transit, so this might be rough and typo-ridden, eek. my spanish is still _más o menos un desastre,_ so as usual, if you see something wrong there, please holler.
> 
> also — if i don't reply to your comment, i so sincerely apologize. i’m hellishly busy as of late and can't frequently log on, but please know that each and every one is loudly yelled over and greatly cherished. thanks as always to you folks for reading, and i hope you enjoyed this!


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